endless summer
APOORVA SRIPATHI
Summer's possibilities are endless.
I dread Chennai summers, so I'm always on my
guard. Sometime in early March I can't help but notice the feeling of
overwhelming warmth creeping up behind me. Moments
later, my neck is glistening with sweat that has traveled down and inside my shirt – sweat cooling even the warm
breeze that sets in late in the evening.
Mornings are worse. I can't seem to toast a slice
of sourdough bread in the kitchen without exclaiming "it's really
hot!" at least eleven times during the process, while wiping my brow, my
neck, my face, and my back – and not in that order every time. My parents are
sick of hearing me complain and pretend otherwise. The season sucks my energy
in small bouts, resulting in my frequent collapse in the room next to our
kitchen for short breaks. It is 11.30 am before I sit down to eat my first meal
of the day. Half an hour later, we set off to the local market for vegetables
and idle talk, and came back with tomatoes, potatoes,
curry leaves, and secrets.
But despite my constant whining about the heat, the thought of the sun fortifies me – the possibilities of its warmth seem
endless, foremost in food. Instant thoughts include cool cucumbers, juicy red
watermelons, luxurious mangoes (duh!), sweet limes, ICE CREAMS, perhaps iced
coffee to start my mornings with. Amber-hued evening sun compels me to take a
walk around my neighborhood, ending at my
local bakery to savor a hot veggie puff with a
crackly golden crust – the type that provides satisfying ASMR when you scratch
it with a knife – a fluffy bun filled with cloying and copious vanilla cream,
and spongy cakes smeared with thick chocolate icing.
Golden afternoons indicate that the time is ripe
for juicing சாத்துக்குடி (sweet
lime); peels scattered everywhere, its fragrance sending signals. On persimmon
mornings, I'm tempted to cut into a mango and drink its juices, saving the
luminous pulp for later. Coffee after, black and iced. Sometimes laziness
overtakes and I settle for whatever ice cream is in the freezer, for breakfast,
announcing to no one in particular that "it's summer, anything goes!"
– a maxim that I repeat in winter* when I slather my paratha with chunks of
butter.
Summer's possibilities are endless.
I dread Chennai summers, so I'm always on my
guard. Sometime in early March I can't help but notice the feeling of
overwhelming warmth creeping up behind me. Moments
later, my neck is glistening with sweat that has traveled down and inside my shirt – sweat cooling even the warm
breeze that sets in late in the evening.
Mornings are worse. I can't seem to toast a slice
of sourdough bread in the kitchen without exclaiming "it's really
hot!" at least eleven times during the process, while wiping my brow, my
neck, my face, and my back – and not in that order every time. My parents are
sick of hearing me complain and pretend otherwise. The season sucks my energy
in small bouts, resulting in my frequent collapse in the room next to our
kitchen for short breaks. It is 11.30 am before I sit down to eat my first meal
of the day. Half an hour later, we set off to the local market for vegetables
and idle talk, and came back with tomatoes, potatoes,
curry leaves, and secrets.
But despite my constant whining about the heat, the thought of the sun fortifies me – the possibilities of its warmth seem
endless, foremost in food. Instant thoughts include cool cucumbers, juicy red
watermelons, luxurious mangoes (duh!), sweet limes, ICE CREAMS, perhaps iced
coffee to start my mornings with. Amber-hued evening sun compels me to take a
walk around my neighborhood, ending at my
local bakery to savor a hot veggie puff with a
crackly golden crust – the type that provides satisfying ASMR when you scratch
it with a knife – a fluffy bun filled with cloying and copious vanilla cream,
and spongy cakes smeared with thick chocolate icing.
Golden afternoons indicate that the time is ripe
for juicing சாத்துக்குடி (sweet
lime); peels scattered everywhere, its fragrance sending signals. On persimmon
mornings, I'm tempted to cut into a mango and drink its juices, saving the
luminous pulp for later. Coffee after, black and iced. Sometimes laziness
overtakes and I settle for whatever ice cream is in the freezer, for breakfast,
announcing to no one in particular that "it's summer, anything goes!"
– a maxim that I repeat in winter* when I slather my paratha with chunks of
butter.
